what's mistaken for closeness is just a case for mitosis [closed]

[lottawork]

Waking is not, historically, what Rush would regard as a favored activity. He is where he always is after being unexpectedly beset upon by sleep's inevitable grasp. The floor is solid and bracing, forming an aching spandrel between that plane and the paralleled arch of shoulders and spine. His skull is no longer the fractured mess it was, in reality left smooth and whole.

The entirety of the Rift's irritating, interfering traversal through the less fondly remembered aspects of his own past is etched into the anterior of his mind, still frames printed behind closed lids. He grinds the heels of both palms into his eye sockets with a fierce, fervent energy, as if it would be possible to scrub away the echo of that experience through execution of pressure alone.

He wonders how much of the dream's content is plausibly dismissible, an idea whose own plausibility he dismisses. Asadi was always too smart for direct obfuscation; it was what he liked about her, what he has continued to appreciate and value about her, but intimacy with one's past as exposed by the Rift is the unfortunate lead-in to a conversation he is certain they will be required to have and would prefer not to have, with her or anyone.

He is also aware, however, that he has been left very little in the way of personal autonomy in relation to that choice. Particularly since his latest endeavor in becoming more deeply acquainted with neuroanatomy has ground to a lamentable standstill, and to best acquire a more extensive knowledge base he will have to be - considerably more hands-on.

Fuck.

The trip to Asadi's apartment passes in its own dull-edged, lateral blur, instructions snapped out briskly to an unlucky taxi driver until he arrives, disheveled and recently woken and completely uninvited. It does not occur to him until after he has rung for her repeatedly that this may be potentially construed as socially unnatural or unacceptable, but he has already set certain events in motion and must see them to their uncertain conclusion.

Comments

[lottawork]

"Fuck off," he says without any of his typical ire, painstakingly delineating another message with each careful depression of a button. "We're having a conversation. Donnae interrupt."

[etherthief]

"About whaaat?" she presses, definitely petulantly. "You better not be talking about ME."

A vain suspicion, perhaps, but what else do they have to talk about? Is Rush going to be asking her for baking tips? "C'mon lemme see," she says, grasping again.

[lottawork]

He shifts purposefully away, fending off the encroaching invasion with a flap of his hand. Dividing his attention while drunk is not terribly wise from several select standpoints, but being drunk is not unlike being dehydrated and he has ample experience on both fronts.

"I am fucking commandeering your fucking phone," he says, the words devoid of bite. "Go fucking find another."

[etherthief]

"You better be being nice," she pouts, giving up for now and watching him reproachfully. It takes a few more moments of watching him struggle with the device before she softens, realizing he really is having a conversation with Greta. She's never seen much of the two of them interacting without her being the center of focus (a memory which makes her cringe slightly). She has no idea how they actually get on without her.

"You like her?" she asks after a decent bout of silence.

[lottawork]

"Of course I like her," he snaps, attempting to fix Asadi with a look of utter disdain but not quite managing it. He's fairly certain his expression falls in the range of something vaguely aggrieved. "She's consistently resourceful."

It occurs to him that he has failed to elucidate this properly over text, though he's doubtless managed to communicate the sentiment regardless, if certainly less eloquently.

[etherthief]

"All right," she says, her hand raised in defense. "I'm just askin'."

She smiles to herself in spite of his surliness. There's something uniquely charming about Rush being nice to Greta, nice about her.

She reaches over to lift her dead arm up, closing it up delicately. It's a little lighter now, all scraped out like that; small favors. She drags it off the table and slides down from her chair, padding over to the kitchen to pour herself some water, moving a little unsteadily.

"Fuck me," she remarks. "It's not even noon."

[lottawork]

"Donnae fash yersel'," he says vaguely. "I'm sure we c'n do much worse."

He sets the phone atop the table surface and leans back, eyes shut as he tries to evaluate his current ratio of alcohol to alcohol dehydrogenase.

He has significant difficulty pursuing that line of thought.

One eye cracks open as he watches Asadi move with a certain level of imbalance befitting one as obviously intoxicated as she.

"You," he murmurs, diction becoming progressively more slurred, "'re pure dead fucking brilliant. Not sure if anyone's told you. I'm telling you now." His eyes close again. "Don' say I said it."

[etherthief]

She turns slowly when he addresses her, and blinks at him for several moments, trying to parse what he's saying. Not because it's difficult to understand, but because he's saying it.

"Buh?" she says eventually, sliding the water pitcher back into the fridge. She stays put for now, standing there and sipping. "I mean I - yeah, people've told me that. You told me that, I ... I think." Didn't he? She frowns thoughtfully and waves it off, smiling sheepishly into her water. "You're pretty great. I mean. Smart." She takes a full drink of water to tide herself over the awkwardness of paying him an earnest compliment, then ends up raising her glass slightly as if in toast. "Pure dead fuckin' brilliant."

[lottawork]

Rush snorts and drags the bottle back to him with a prolonged rasp over wood.

"Aye," he says, raising it in toast. "Bang t'rights."

He is certain he will regret the entire sequence of events he has since set in motion as well as the result of them as it will be, inevitably, the sort of headache reminiscent of having one's brain pressurized and driven unremittingly into the back of one's own skull.

Intoxication allows the luxury of freely dismissing logic, so he throws the bottle back and drinks.